


A Still of the Vet as an Artist, (B&W, gloss paper, 26.5"×17.4", 2017)

by HogwartsToAlexandria



Series: Marie's Events and Bang Fics [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone is a good bro, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Found Family, Friends Mingle, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Meet-Cute, Misunderstandings, Photographer Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthetic Arm, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Secretive Friends, Shy Bucky Barnes, Shy Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Unconsciousness, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, War Veteran Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-04 13:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21198749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/pseuds/HogwartsToAlexandria
Summary: Steve Rogers is a bit lost in his life. He does have his exhibition project to keep him busy, and his friends are nothing but supportive, like they've always been, but five years after Afghanistan, he's still very much a mess, no way around it.Bucky Barnes takes life one day at a time. Losing his arm is something he has yet to get used to but he's got a good support network, just like they said he should at the VA. He's drifting behind Sam and Nat a bit, not quite sure what life still has in store for him.Until he meets that guy that is. The shy one who blushes and smiles in a way Bucky's never seen before. Then anything goes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/gifts), [Bill_Longbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bill_Longbow/gifts), [betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/gifts).

> Heya! This is the story I have been working on for the capbb, started months ago and finally meeting its readers; let's just say I'm just shy of freaking out from both nerves and excitement. I'm sincerely hoping you'll enjoy the read 😘
> 
> The amazing artist I've had the chance to work with is none other than [Deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium) whose first art you'll find in this first chapter! I am so thankful for your work dear and still a little dazed that you liked my summary enough to pick it and create for it. Thank you, so so much.
> 
> Other thanks go to [SerenaLunera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenalunera/pseuds/serenalunera), for being at the very origin of this story back when I started writing for the MCU and she betad all my fics for ships she didn't care much about and I said I'd give her a Stucky to make it up to her - long overdue dear but it's here! 😂  
To [Bill_Longbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bill_Longbow/pseuds/Bill_Longbow) and of course [Betheflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betheflame/pseuds/betheflame) for their tireless cheering and beta-ing of this fic which has consumed me for quite a while. Thank you so much, all of you ladies, when they say it takes a village, you've been mine, for sure. ❤
> 
> And finally before I shut up, to the mods of our event, something as huge as the CapBB is enormous work and you guys have been amazing, thank you!!

Steve feels hot everywhere. His skin is red-hot burning and he's not half-done with today's session. Still, he leaves the cardio group room with a smile. That's why he comes here after all, to sweat his brains out and not think about anything other than the searing flames his muscles are slowly turning into.

He retrieves his gear from the bench by the mirrors, namely his two liters worth of water and his already well-drenched towel, and makes his way to the gym proper. Next is lifting and he takes a deep breath in. His lungs already feel so much cleaner than before he stepped into the building; unobstructed airways and a healthy, thumping heart. 

He walks, slow and steady, towards his regular lifting machines, eyeing the machines that focus on back muscles with a glint of motivation, but that's not on today's program so he steers himself to the mats for that days’ agenda. He sits down on one of the mats and proceeds to do a few push-ups and crunches, controlling his fleeting breathing with minute concentration, eyes trained in front of him, not looking at anything in particular, just straight ahead.

It takes him awhile to realize that the voice he hears, and has actually been listening to for the last twenty minutes without acknowledging it, belongs to the man working out on the exact opposite side of the room. The voice is low enough that Steve can't really make out what he's saying but, man, now that he's seen him he can't tear his eyes away. Is the other man allowed to be this pretty when everyone else is glistening with stinky sweat? 

The man is running on a treadmill, his friend - Steve finds himself hoping - running on the one right next to his. He has dark hair, and it must be long because he's tied it up in a bun that gets messier and messier with every minute he spends working out, and Steve can just picture his own pale fingers disappearing in between the man's silky strands. 

He tries to look down, to the side, close his eyes. It doesn't work. It's like a hook, it's like a net, all around him and drawing his eyes up and _ straight ahead._

Steve is entranced by the man's face; his jawline so defined he can see it from where he's crouching on the mat - Steve would pay to see that jaw cut glass because he is _ sure _ it could. Handsome with the Great Hair is laughing and frowning and smiling at the man he most certainly came with, and Steve is silently praying for him not to be his boyfriend or anything close to that. Which is ridiculous; he can't just go up to the guy and chat him up in the middle of the gym. 

It's not like he has time for anything remotely interesting to do with another person, not with all the work he's got to do in the upcoming weeks anyway.

He tries to shake himself, picks a rope and starts counting jumps. Then goes on with his program, actual lifting, only to realize that it brings him even closer to Gorgeous-Black-Hair than he was before. What he sees from this angle is simultaneously the end of him and the most promising thing Steve has seen in a long time - at least it tastes like it could lead to something interesting, which is more than what he's gotten in months.

The man has a full-arm prosthetic. Steve's seen enough of them to recognize it, even with the high-quality silicone skin that covers it. He was curious before he got confirmation, but he's on the verge of fascination now and he has to concentrate for a bit to find his groove back and push and pull the heavy bar of weights he's got his hands clasped on. 

His next one-minute break is when he notices the dog tags that disappear in the torn collar of the man's grey tank top and he's a _ gone _ man the second he sees them for what they are, companions to his own, loosely hanging around his neck at all times of night and day.

He knows this session is taking way more time than it usually takes him to go through his routine, but he can't bring himself to regret it one bit. He's on his feet and moving towards the man before his mind catches up with the plan. His non-existing plan. He shouldn't be doing this. It's awkward at best, creepy if the man isn't into dudes at all.

But in the millisecond Steve stalls by the hallway to the lockers, his mind is made up, he's got the perfect explanation and the perfect out and it won't even be a lie...

He takes a few more steps to the treadmill area and stops about two feet from the duo. Steve takes a deep breath before either of them notice him; gosh, both these guys are _ beefy _.

"Hm, Hi!" Steve rubs the back of his neck in nervousness, but fights hard to keep from blushing, that's not who he is anymore, he's got this --

"Hi?" Tank-top guy answers, frowning a bit and Steve's breath quite possibly leaves him all at once, traitor - his _ eyes _.

"Er, sorry to bother you, I'm Steve," he smiles at both men, but doesn't wait for their names in return figuring that too might be creepy, "I hope it's ok, but I couldn't help but notice your friends there," and he pulls out his own tags from underneath his tight shirt. The man gives him a small nod of acknowledgement; it's not rare for vets to start conversations with each other when they cross paths back at home. The man's eyebrows remain raised, however, so Steve scrambles to get to the next part.

"Long story short, I was Air Force. I got into a crash and became a war photographer for the rest of my time, I'm putting up an exhibition in a little while that's all vets..." Steve holds onto the man's clear blue eyes, "So I was wondering if you'd be interested."

A blank stare follows Steve's proposition and he thought he could handle awkward but he can't, not really, so he searches the pockets of his shorts and comes out with one of his cards.

"Anyway, I gotta run, think about it and if you feel like it, give me a call, my number is right there," Steve deposits the card on the panel of the treadmill the man is still walking on, granted at a much slower pace now, and makes a hasty retreat for the lockers with one last look into the guy's eyes - a look he instantly regrets since Handsome’s eyes are wide in wonderment and Steve doesn't know how to interpret that. The look eventually brings forth the blush he's been fighting so hard, so he flees.

He curses himself all the way to the lockers. There he folds his used towel into a neat square and jams it into the plastic bag he keeps for that purpose especially. Then he gets to his shower gel, shampoo and the much bigger, much fluffier towel he's grateful he put in his backpack earlier this morning. The gym's lukewarm showers might just be exactly what he needs right now.

Steve knows his face is still a little red and isn't that the worst thing ever - he tells himself to stop wallowing and faces the spray of the shower instead. It doesn't work. Nothing works today it seems. Clint is right; sometimes Steve is too dramatic for his own good, but damn. That guy was too gorgeous to be true.

When he leaves the showers, Steve's almost managed to school his features to resemble his post-war persona, the one he cherishes more than anything now, the one that keeps the most annoying people at bay and gives him enough strength to face each day, the one that projects confidence. Not the teenage, flushed-up kid he impersonated earlier. 

It all crumbles back down when he sees Gorgeous Guy’s friend run up to him in the hallway back to his locker. It's obvious he's looking for him with how his eyes looked from side-to-side as he jogged up to the room and stopped dead on him. Steve almost drops his towel. 

"Hey! Sorry, I heard what you offered my pal earlier, I'm Sam by the way. He's not super talkative with strangers but uh, here," the man - Sam - pushes Steve's card back into his hands but doesn't give him enough time to consider how much of a fool he made of himself before he continues, "I put his number on it, _ personal _ phone number. Name's Bucky, give him a call, he's shy." Sam winks before whirling around and back inside the gym.

Steve tries not to gawk or stare at the number on the card too long. He fails on both accounts, but walks out of there grinning. He must have done something good somewhere along the way, he muses. This is a nice feeling, he thinks, and shy? He can work with shy; shy is cute. 

The rest of the day the sun seems to shine just that much brighter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where friends are really family and sometimes their nosiness is all it takes to get dorks moving.

Bucky is still face down and smashed in his pillow, stomach flush to the sheets with the comforter only half-covering his dignity and his legs parted to either corner of his bed when Natasha enters the room. 

She knows he's awake, he knows she knows, he would never be caught sleeping with someone standing this close to him. And yet he doesn't move - maybe if he stays still long enough she'll leave him alone. No one buys that for a second, most certainly not Nat. 

“C'mon big guy, time to get up, Sam made breakfast before he left,” she drops a rare kiss on the back of his head before going back to the kitchen, leaving the door open behind her. 

He used to be able to get up in a heartbeat, no questions asked and even less complaining. Those days are over. Bucky treads to the kitchen with heavy steps and only clad in a loose pair of faded black sweats. His eyes are barely open, his hair is undone and close to resembling a bird’s nest, his prosthetic still set where he left it on his desk yesterday night. 

“Hi,” he says and yawns through it. 

Natasha’s reply takes the form of a giant mug of coffee set right in front of him and Bucky's face illuminates through the lasting fog of sleep.

“You are my savior, an angel, something else.” It's mumbled, but it makes Nat smile nonetheless and Bucky thinks his day is starting well enough - ever since he met her for the first time, lurking through the vet station downtown, he swore he'd put as many smiles on that face as he could manage, that's one for today. 

“Sam told me you gotta be at the gym by 2.” She's reading the paper and Bucky knows she's looking for any kind of clue on the latest tactical unit's mission - for any kind of intel on her friends well-being. He also knows she won't find anything there, so he chooses, against any kind of sense of self-preservation, not to change the subject. 

“What else did Sam tell you?” He keeps his tone as mysterious as he can, even as he picks up his mug to hide his face behind. 

It all works like a charm. In one smooth, if jagged-start motion, Natasha’s got her paper laid flat on the table and her eyes trained on Bucky, her eyebrows drawn together to accompany her squinting. 

“What else should Sam have told me?”

“Really? That’s your interrogation method? Gotta tell you Nat, I’ve seen more discreet.”

“Don’t. You started this, tell me!” She got up halfway through her sentence and uncharacteristically started whining as she went. Had it been anyone else Bucky would have flinched at best, drawn a knife at worse, but when she put her head on his good shoulder he just leaned his own against it.

“A guy came up to us, introduced himself and all,” he said, nonchalant as could be.

Natasha positively buzzed as she bore a searing hole in his temple without ever moving her chin from his shoulder, “Go on,” 

Bucky chuckled at the petulant tone but complied, lest he got a swat for his trouble, “At the gym, said he was called Steve Rogers, wants to take pictures of me for an exhibition or something.”

At that, Natasha  _ did  _ let go of Bucky to sit cross-legged on the table right next to him, her hopping and settling only taking a mere few seconds, the table staying motionless in the process.

“Steve Rogers you said?” 

Bucky recognized that look; the one that meant Nat had more information than he did and even though he’d started this conversation thinking he was making a big mistake, he knew he just had to know what she did. He hummed in confirmation, waiting intently.

“War photographer, medical discharge from the Air Force, crashed into an icy lake, lung damage, unable to re-engage on the battlefield, picked up his abandoned college major to stay deployed.” Natasha nodded as though going through a list of items she’d memorized, which, come to think of it, might be exactly what she was doing. “He’s kind of famous now, both in the military and photography circles, you know?”

Bucky jerked his head to the side in a simple shake, shrugging too, for added meaning, “You know I don’t know shit about any of that.”

“Is he cute? All the pictures I’ve seen are about fifteen years old now.”

She’s smiling that sweet way she gets when she’s genuinely interested and Bucky can’t resist the slight flush of honesty that spreads on his cheeks. Her smile only grows bigger but she still pushes for more. “Is he?” 

“Yeah, yeah; blond, muscles everywhere, awkward as fuck,” Bucky laughs gently at the memory of the other man’s inner struggle the day before. “Like, rubbing his neck and blushing and fleeing kind of awkward, it was sweet.” 

Nat is nodding with each new word that comes out of his mouth, and even though he knows what she’s on to when she tries to talk again, he can’t help but groan, “Nat, we’ve talked about this, soulmates do  _ not _ exist.” 

She raises her hand in a don’t-look-at-me gesture, “I didn’t say anything, Bucky bear, just, you know, you got the sparkly eyes and--oh!” Bucky picked her up in a heartbeat and dropped her on the couch almost as quickly.

“Gotta shower, ain’t got time for this sappy gossiping of yours, Romanov,” as he makes his way back to his room and in the direction of the bathroom, he still manages to wink back at her.

* * *

Steve wakes with a start, and resists the urge to claw his way out of his bed the second his brain clears just enough for the warmth of the comforter to register even a little bit. He stays put for a few long minutes, all hope that it will be enough to calm him long gone. Steve just waits for his breathing to come back to a relatively regular pace before he gives in to his need to get out of this bed that should be so warm, and yet does nothing to relieve his body of the cold sweat it’s covered in. 

Shivering from head to toe and every breath he takes whistles, and while he's used to it, it still grates on his every nerve. He reaches the bathroom, turning on every light on his way. The door swings open with a loud  _ bang  _ against the opposite wall - he couldn’t care less. 

Steve tries not to stare at himself in the mirror, he tries to not even look up from the sink but to no avail, his eyes are irremediably drawn up to the livid white of his face, the translucent drops of sweat that pearl from his forehead and temples and roll down to the birth of his tee-shirt, almost white in comparison. His eyes are bloodshot and he knows it’s because he’s been crying in his sleep, his hands shake as he turns on the shower and he knows it’s because no matter how hard he tries, water will forever terrify him.

He turns the water tap all the way to scalding hot and sheds his stuck-on sleep clothes, lets them pool at his feet in a wet heap he’ll deal with later. 

A shudder escapes him as he enters his shower, the water at the bottom of the tub burning the soles of his feet but Steve barely moves the tap to ease the heat of it. Even the steam that fills the room is hot as it thickens until Steve can feel a sheen of it replacing the sweat on his face and back.

His hip hurts like a bitch and he curses under his breath, forever hoping the pain remaining from an accident nearly a decade old will go away some day. It doesn’t and Steve closes his fists tightly around his hip bone, probably tightly enough to bruise it nicely but again, it’s nothing he gives much thought to anymore, he’s just grateful for the infernal heat of the water that’s already beginning to chase away the ice he feels in his veins every time he wakes up from a more or less rough night. There’s no way to tell when that will happen so Steve hangs on to the small methods he’s put up to deal with it all.

By the time Steve steps out of the shower and his feet touch the cool tiles of the floor again, the water has gone tepid at best. His eyes, at least, are red from an entirely different reason than before and his skin burns rather than freezes, so he counts it as a win.

After he shaves and gets dressed for his day, Steve paces around his apartment for a bit. He should be working, framing, writing bios, writing descriptions of pieces. Instead, all he can do is stare at the void, at the wall, at the sky through the window and it hurts. The worst nights always leave him like this, unable to get anything done or even to want to get anything done.

How long Steve stays peering at the sky trying to clear his mind is a mystery. He stops when his phone buzzes repeatedly on the coffee table at his side and he gets up from his ratty but well-loved couch to find out who's texting him so insistently. Not that he doesn't have a pretty clear idea already. 

Yes, there it is - it's the Whatsapp group conversation they keep with Clint and Phil and Tony, who is currently jabbering in the chat. Messages keep coming in and in and in and Steve has to give it to his friend, he already feels a little lighter for his antics. 

Until he actually reads the texts-

_ "Hi Beef Cake," _

_ "Hope you're decent," _

_ "We're on our way,"  _

_ "Seriously," _

_ "Cover your prize," _

_ "We've all seen it already, it's nothing anyone wants to see again," _

_ "Steeeeeb," _

_ "We're on your doorstep," _

_ "I'm not even kidding,"  _

[Image file]

And sure enough that's a picture of Steve's building right there, with Clint already one foot in and Phil certainly trying desperately to keep himself out of the shot. 

Steve rubs at his face,  _ damn _ . But just as he does so and takes a look around to make sure his place doesn't completely reflect the state of his mind prior to Tony's interruption, Steve thinks this is good. It's always good. Fifteen years of friendship means it's always good to see those guys. 

Even if they always seem to know what's up with him and it's not creepy per se, but definitely annoying at times. 

_ "I'm decent, Tones. Let yourselves in."  _

Which they do, just as he presses send, because of course they do. 

"Morning Sunshine!" Tony comes hollering through the door and Steve winces, but can't help noticing that Clint was already a safe distance away from him and he doesn't seem affected. It’s a comfort that no matter how obnoxious Tony gets, he’s always careful to not cause Clint pain. 

Steve smiles, the first one he's been able to form since he got up. 

"Hi guys," Steve gets up to greet them, accepts the loud peck that's almost a raspberry Tony puts on his cheek, the side-hug Clint gives him before he shakes Phil's hand - he was always the classiest of their merry little band. 

Tony perches up on one of the couch arms while Clint and Phil pile on an armchair together. 

"You look like shit, Rogers," Clint whispers like he's telling a secret and Steve laughs nervously. 

"Can I get you guys anything?" He says in lieu of an answer. "Not like I was expecting you so I don't know what I have," 

"Got a Coke?" Tony pipes in. 

"Not for you, no, there will be no diabetic outbreak in my house," Steve narrows his eyes at his friend until Tony huffs in surrender.

"That cucumber water you make to go to the gym?" He asks and there it is, Steve knows he's seen the minute wince that doubles as a smile form on his face for all of two seconds, same as he sees the other two noticed as well when he turns around in an effort to avoid scrutiny. 

"What's that face?" Clint watches him carefully.

"You saw it too, he made a face, right? You made a face, Steve." Tony adds, "What's up? What happened?" 

Steve groans, probably louder than necessary but it gets the point across. It also doubles the interest the other three intentionally had in whatever he's going to tell them. Even Phil, for all that he is quiet and unobtrusive, Steve can feel the weight of his gaze as he studies him. Damn spies. 

Steve puts a hand in the air to halt any more questions, "Cucumber water for you," he points at Tony, before asking the other two, "Coffee?"

They nod, obviously, and he retreats to the kitchen. He tries to collect himself as he fixes everyone's drinks, taking way longer than pouring Tony's water and grabbing the pot of coffee requires - he's stalling okay?

He comes back with everyone's drinks and starts pouring mugs of coffee, avoiding his friend's gazes like a champ-

" _ Steve _ ," Tony whines. 

Steve takes a deep breath and figures he might as well tell them. 

He fishes in his jeans pockets for a second before he finds it - the man in front of whom he made a fool of himself, the man he's been thinking about ever since the chills of his night started clearing away,  _ Bucky _ . 

The name rings right in Steve's ears, for all that Sam's messy scrawl doesn't do it justice. 

Clint is the first to pick up the card from where it landed, face down, on the coffee table. Tony's positively buzzing with curiosity.

As often is the case, Clint's face is unreadable and so is Phil's. Steve's always guessed it was part of their training, but never has he asked questions - better to respect the fact that this is one thing they can't share with either him or Tony. It doesn't mean it's not annoying though, nor that it's actually making him more uneasy than ever before as he sits there, silent, stewing in expectations. 

Tony taps his foot on the floor repeatedly before he can't take it anymore and Steve is sure he's very obvious in his thankfulness this time around. 

"So?"

The other two share a look but all Phil says is, "Well that doesn't tell us much, Steve, does it?"

There's a glint of sorts in his eye as he watches Steve's face and Steve gets a feeling that there's more to this than either man lets on but he's so embarrassed, remembering his prowess of the day before that he can't find it in himself to push. 

Tony makes an impatient gesture of his hand and Clint gives him the card. 

" _ Bucky _ ? Who the hell is Bucky?" Tony sounds so petulant it's almost funny, his gaze so searching that Steve spills it.

He rubs at the back of his neck, very aware that he is once again blushing but to hell with it he figures. 

"Met him at the gym yesterday?" He doesn't mean it to sound like a question but even as he's now resolved on telling them, Steve can't help stalling some more. "Made a complete fool of myself, introducing myself and offering to take his picture for my exhibition I guess," the last words are all jumbled together but the other three have a lifetime of experience with Steve's awkwardness so it doesn't prevent them from understanding any of it. 

"You did what?" Tony's grin is so wide and his eyes so indulgent, Steve doesn't know if he should feel offended or happy that he's told them in the end. 

"Mustn't have been so bad if you've got his number, right?" Clint says, talking and signing at the same time. 

"His friend gave it to me, Sam, said  _ Bucky _ ," Steve blushes a deeper shade of red, "is  _ shy _ with strangers but I should give him a call or something." 

"And you are  _ sitting  _ here, with  _ us _ , instead of doing just that? What are you, an idiot, Rogers?" Tony's got up mid-sentence and whips around like a thought's just hit him. "Is he good-looking? Given your face I'm pretty sure that's a yes. Do you know anything about this guy though? 'Cause you can't go sleeping with random people, Steeb, you're too pure." 

Steve knows that last jab is all his friend's concern for him but somehow, something in him tells him it's unwarranted. Clint and Phil are quiet in their armchair, Clint's feet balanced on one of the arms and his face halfway resting on Phil's shoulder and hiding in his neck. They're not saying anything, and it's not suspicious  _ exactly, _ but it's enough for Steve to decide, hesitantly, that he wants to trust his gut on this one, just this once. 

"All I know is they're both military. Bucky's most likely not on active duty anymore because he was wearing a full-arm prosthetic. And yeah, Tones, he's gorgeous," Steve bites his lip as he looks up at his friend, "Really, damn beautiful."

Tony groans at him, "Then where's your phone, Cap? Go on, text the dude, we'll get out of your hair, right boys?" 

Clint signs an enthusiastic  _ "ok" _ that takes the whole range of his arm and Phil gets up carrying him bridal-style in answer. Clint yelps, Tony laughs, and they're out the door before Steve can really compute what just happened; but not before he hears Tony mutter, "Don't think we didn't notice you two being all secretive right there but fine, I can wait."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Steve and Bucky share the same thoughts without knowing it and Sam is a good Bro, as always.

It takes Steve another long while before he is able to act on his friends' advice, Tony's gently mocking smile playing behind his eyelids when he closes his eyes to think. 

Tony's right, has always been right when it came to Steve's love life really. Although, Tony would do well to take his own advice as often as he doles it out.

Soon the image of his college friend is replaced by that of the man who so efficiently and effortlessly swept him off his feet the day before. Steve knows he's always been good at taking in details and remembering faces, but he's still surprised at how easy it is to get lost in the image of the other man his mind is able to recreate. Maybe he could draw him. He hasn't drawn many portraits lately - he’s taken so many photographs that he didn't seem to want to. Now, however, his fingers itch to create. 

So that's what he does, and he's sure Tony would give him a slap on the back of the head for killing time he could be spending actually talking to the man, but he still goes to get his sketchbook. He keeps it simple, a charcoal and the thick blankness of the page, the morning light that's slowly becoming noon filtering through the window in rays that show the dust flying around in a galaxy of little specks. 

Steve finds the remote to his entertainment center and presses the automatic start mode Tony's installed him. The room fills with low piano notes and here he is, in the zone. 

It's always been easier to get lost in his art than it's been to interact with anyone -  _ "that's Steve for ya" _ is what Clint would say and it would be true. The crash didn't help; having to start all over again, without her, didn't help. 

The portrait is coming along nicely. Steve finds the charcoal was the perfect choice to bring life back to the lines on the paper, to mimic the life he's seen at the gym - the sheer obsidian of the charcoal making it easy to recreate the sharp angle of the man's jaw as well as the voluptuous aspect of that bun he was sporting. 

Steve bites his lip and stops, suddenly. He can't be losing himself in this and not do anything about it. It doesn't make any sense. He thinks that, and at the same time he knows it's just how he works - lets both his brain and heart get ready to get involved by doing something else, on the fringe of the actual thing. 

Steve wipes his hands on the closest washcloth he can find before taking his phone out of his pocket. There's another message from their group conversation, Phil this time. Steve raises an eyebrow. 

_ "Don't overthink this." _

That's all it says and yet it's everything Steve needs to hear, spot-on. 

Steve gets the card from where Tony's set it on the coffee table, toys with it a second longer before pressing the keys for a new message. 

The typing bar blinks at him like it's waiting for him and Steve does what he's been told - he goes for it. 

_ "Hello, it's Steve, the guy from the gym? Your friend Sam gave me your number and…" _   
  


* * *

The gym is a loud place to be, always has been. There's the ambient music - always so aggressively upbeat - and the incessant chatter of the people who come with friends, the clunking and squeaking of the machines, and the general white noise of it all combined. 

Not every day is a good day for Bucky, but he does have to go to the gym any time Sam is free for their sessions - no matter the mood he is in, or the overbearing presence of his memories, he's not going to get better at using his arm or reinforcing his back and shoulder muscles if he doesn't go. 

Nat wouldn't let him skip anyway. And now that he thinks about it, neither would Sam. Let's not even talk about his wife - she would kill him if Bucky even  _ attempted _ to skip, hardass Col. Okoye Wilson doesn't do subtle in these cases.

It's funny really, how they've gone from a simple patient/therapist relationship to what they are now, practically best friends and roommates. After Bucky’s therapy had ended and Sam wasn’t bound by professional ethics any longer, it all happened fairly quickly. A series of coincidences mostly, well-aligned needs that complemented each other's and there they went: having beers at the pub downtown on Friday nights, introducing him to Nat and being introduced to Okoye, looking for a place big enough for the four of them to live and signing the lease papers. 

Roommates, best friends, brothers from two different mothers. 

Sam is still a right pain in his ass today, though. Their session is over but the sadist didn't go easy on him. 

"Will you stop groaning like a grandma, man?" The man interrupts Bucky's thoughts.

They're coming out of the entirely unsatisfying showers, Bucky expertly knotting his towel around his waist one handed and putting another on his shoulders to catch the dripping of his hair. 

"I'll groan as much as I want. Sure you like it anyway," Bucky winks but he's still wincing from the way his back yells at him to just sit or lie down.

They get to the lockers and make a quick job of getting dressed, Bucky's never been more thankful for Nat and the little treats she puts in his backpack for whenever they come out of the gym - Hershey's today. 

"Want one?" Bucky asks around a mouthful of chocolate. 

Sam chuckles but shakes his head, "Nah, I have my quinoa waiting at home." 

"You and your quinoa I swear," Bucky laughs. 

Their bikes are parked right by the front doors of the gym and after they've secured their bags at the rear, they get on their respective saddles. Only, that's the moment Bucky's cellphone decides to chime in with an incoming message. 

He raises his pointer to halt Sam, "could be Nat."

Except it's not. 

Bucky swipes his phone unlocked, the number it displays is unknown but the text quickly sets that record right.  _ Steve Rogers _ . 

"What's up? She need anything? We can swing by the store, it's on our--"

"Not Nat, pal," Bucky mumbles. He's pretty sure his cheeks are flaming, and for so little it's embarrassing. 

"Oh?  _ Oh. _ It's that guy right?" Sam asks, his bike jolting a bit when he can't help jumping in excitement, the dork. "It is! What does he want?"

Bucky doesn't answer right away, just stares at the text trying to order his thoughts, to figure out what it makes him feel, his therapist at the VA would be proud. 

"Coffee, he wants to do coffee," he says in the end and Sam nearly whoops. 

"Awesome! I mean, it's good right? He seemed nice, what do you think?" 

His excitement is palpable and sweet, really, but Bucky only shrugs. 

"I guess? I don't know, I'll think about it." He says before pocketing his phone and launching his bike into motion, forcing Sam to shout if he wants to keep talking. He doesn't, and Bucky uses the relative silence of the road to think. 

The truth is, he hasn't stopped thinking about  _ Steve _ all night yesterday and ever since he woke up. The only break in his ridiculous bout of daydreaming came when Sam really pushed him to the last shred of his endurance, and even then, when he'd had time to take a breath in, Bucky had been back to thinking about the man. 

He really was pretty, and he seemed  _ nice _ , sweet even.  _ Shit _ . 

It has been so long since Bucky has had to deal with this kind of thing, so long since he's been in the position of being flirted with or having to flirt back. He doesn't know what to do with this situation, he feels so out of practice. 

He hasn't done dates or even casual hookups since before the war, before his arm, and Bucky simply doesn't know where to start anymore, or if he even wants to, if he's still capable of letting someone in like that. 

The wind in his hair feels good as they make their way back home and Bucky is almost sad to see the metal doors of their apartment building coming into view. He'll go for a walk later, he decides. 

Sam is the first at the door, as always, competitive dork raced him in the last few feet of distance, oblivious to Bucky's total lack of interest in the rather low stakes. He still winks at his friend when he gets there and they get in together. 

The bikes are left behind the metal doors before they climb the exterior staircase that leads to their apartment and Bucky is once again lost in thought. He toys with his phone inside his pocket and chews on his bottom lip mercilessly. 

"Just say yes, what's there to lose, hmm?" Sam interrupts him even as his back is turned to Bucky and his face halfway inside the fridge rummaging for his salad. 

Bucky doesn't answer. He goes to sit on the couch, sideways, so he can still see Sam at the table behind it. He leans his head on the back of the couch, spinning his phone between two fingers.

"Buck, c'mon," Sam groans, "I can hear you think from all the way over here! Just go on, text him, simple words, simple coffee." 

Bucky nods against the cushions, faint and thoughtful. He glances at his phone, stares some more at the text Steve sent him and tries typing out a few different things - God he's hopeless at this crap. 

In the end he settles for as simple an answer as he can, Sam always does have good advice, and presses send.

_ "I'd like that, Brooklyn okay for you? I know a place." _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where a date happens, and friends are family, always.

Dodging Sam's excruciating nosiness and attempts at following him have proved both hilarious and exasperating, draining mostly, but that could be the session they'd just had. It still amazes him that this ball of energy is married to the most no-nonsense woman Bucky's ever met, but then again he guess that's the beauty of their couple, how well they compliment each other. Lucky bastards; Bucky misses her, can't wait for Okoye to be back from her latest mission.

Bucky still arrives at the café ten minutes before the clock strikes 4 p.m. and thinks he deserves some kind of medal. Sam can be a right octopus when he tries. 

The smell of fresh baked-goods and coffee waft over him, familiar as it is, and Bucky smiles. 

He gets two steps in before an excited teen rushes to him and wraps his, frankly, too long limbs around him in a hug that crushes Bucky's breath out of his lungs. 

"Hi Pete," Bucky returns the hug, breathing in the warmth of the boy, "Can't breathe much when you do that, huh?" 

Bucky grins as Peter immediately lets go of him, ready to start apologizing right off until Bucky nips it in the bud, "Totally fine, glad to see you too." Bucky kisses Peter's forehead to chase the last of the boy's self-consciousness away from his eyes. "Your sis around?" 

Peter nods, pointing over his shoulder and towards the back of the shop. 

Bucky goes to and behind the counter, right at home in this shop he's found right after he got sent back home and Peter follows close behind. 

"Jamie!" Carol startles at her desk, getting up in the next breath and pushing her reading glasses up in her hair. "Good to see your face 'round here." 

He knows she doesn't mean it as a reproach or anything but as he looks between hers and Peter's face, Bucky can't help but feel guilty he's been too distracted by his intensive PT sessions to come back here more often. 

"Sorry I--"

"Don't tell me about it. What am I serving you?" Carol winks.

"Oh no, you were busy, I don't wanna--"

"Nonsense, caramel macchiato? Lemon pie?" She narrows his eyes at him, "Or is it a cherry pie kinda day?"

Bucky blushes under the scrutiny, trying to remember why he thought coming here for  _ this _ was a good idea. 

He clears his throat, "I'm...I'm actually waiting for someone." He says finally and it's all he can do not to wring his wrists. 

Carol makes an interested sound down the back of her throat, one of her eyebrows raised in silent question, but she doesn't say anything, yet. Peter's excited hopping had stopped for a second but is now back in full-force as he seemingly reins himself in to ask, "Your usual table then?"

He squeaks through the question a bit, but Bucky nods and leaves them to make their best bets. He finds his usual booth and sits down, back to the window. He takes his phone out of his pocket and resumes playing with it, dangling it between two fingers like he always does when he's nervous. 

Because he  _ is _ a nervous wreck, so much so that he doesn't even have trouble admitting it to himself. 

His phone is blissfully silent, empty of any cancellation messages on Steve's part and Bucky is oddly comforted by the sight of his screensaver - a picture of Pete back when Bucky had just met them and the kid wouldn't stay two minutes off Bucky's leg - free of any blinking notifications. 

He's thankful for Carol and Peter's discretion, all muted looks and genuine smiles that only serve to give him little bursts of confidence without making him feel cornered in the slightest. He finds himself wishing Nat had been there when he sent his sort-of invitation earlier, she sure would have been more useful that Sam, the hollering idiot, had been. 

Bucky sighs as he checks the honestly ridiculous Cheshire cat clock behind the counter until his head whips around with the soft notes of the chime that indicated the door's been opened. 

_ Fuck _ he's even more beautiful than Bucky remembered, and it's only been a day since he last saw the man. Being free of his - admittedly very fitting - sweaty workout clothes suits him well. 

Steve's gaze sweeps across the room, flying over the head of the few other customers until it stops at Bucky's booth, at Bucky's eyes on him. He blushes on the spot and damn, that's sweet. 

Bucky smiles as he gets up to greet the other man, taking in the sight of him in casual jeans and a white, two-sizes-too-small shirt. 

There's a beat of awkward standing, not knowing if they should shake hands or what until Bucky simply nods and gestures towards the other side of the booth.

"Hi," he can't seem to stop smiling and he hopes, God does he hope that he doesn't look like a loon. 

"Hello, Bucky," Steve answers before he sits down, looking like he's on the verge of fainting with nerves. 

_ At least we're on the same page _ , Bucky thinks.

The silence doesn't have time to stretch before Peter gets to their table, wearing his usual cheek-splitting grin.

"Good afternoon and welcome to the Captain's Café, what can I get for you?" 

Bucky's heard that line about a million times, has said it himself just as much and yet it feels comforting. He's in a familiar territory, and that's when he remembers just why he's thought of taking Steve here and nowhere else. 

It feels oddly intimate to have him in a place he really does call home, but he doesn't regret it. Steve's eyes are soft and gentle as he looks up at Peter, visibly put at ease by the boy's giddiness. 

"Afternoon Peter," Steve answers squinting at Peter's badge - he really should work on his handwriting - "I'll have whatever he's having." He continues, pointing at Bucky.

Peter snorts, "well I hope you like sugar then." He grins and he's off to the counter again. 

The question reads clear as day in Steve's eyes and Bucky chuckles uncomfortably. 

"Caramel macchiato and cherry pie, usually with a mountain of whipped cream on top of it." He answers and he finds he likes the little glint that lights up at the bottom of Steve's blue eyes. 

"Nice," the man says before scooting back in his seat, only now fully resting his back on the cushions behind him. "Come here often?" 

Bucky looks at Steve then, assessing the timid interest he sees painted on his features and the way it makes him feel before he nods. 

"Yeah, I used to work here. Carol and Pete took me in, after, you know," Bucky raises his left shoulder in explanation.

"Oh, that's nice," Steve's eyes widen almost imperceptibly, "God knows I didn't know what to do with myself back then." 

A wistful expression passes across Steve's face but it's gone as quickly as it came and Bucky thinks there's a story there but he doesn't ask. Maybe Steve will tell him later, if there is a later that is.

"So you're a photographer then?" Bucky at least knows that, and he's almost proud of himself for asking - the way Steve's whole face lights up kind of breaks the flow of air that's supposed to enter his lungs with how pretty it makes him. 

"Yeah, I've always been interested in art, really, but I picked up a camera back in college and couldn't put it down. It drove my roommate crazy." Steve's voice is almost breathy and he chuckles on that last sentence. 

"You were friends? Asking 'cause mine was  _ friggin’ awful _ ."

"Oh sorry to hear that," Steve says and he looks so sincere Bucky feels the need to wave it off.

"It was a long time ago." 

Steve nods, "I was friends with mine, still am actually. Tony, that's his name, it was a bit rocky at first but we made it work, he's basically a brother to me now."

It's easy to believe Steve with the way he smiles, so warmly, like his friend is in the room.

Peter chooses that moment to come back and sets their drinks in the middle of the table, careful not to jostle anything lest he spills something, again. Then come the pies and before he goes he drops a kiss on Bucky's temple, a cheeky smile on his lips. 

" _ Dork _ ," Bucky mumbles after him and Peter looks back with a wink before getting back to work.

"How old is he?"

"16, thinks he's still ten though with how he jumps to hug people." Bucky chuckles.

"He seems to like you very much."

"It's mutual," Bucky nods. "Try the pie."

Once again, Bucky hopes he doesn't look too creepy as he watches Steve take a forkful of the cherry pie, some of the whipped cream dangerously close to slipping back down on his plate. His eyes round up a bit as the first taste sure hits the buds of his tongue and Bucky grins, and flushes with a newfound warmth when Steve makes a pleased sound and licks his lips.

"That is a damn good pie," the man almost moans as he digs back in. 

_ Totally unfair, that moan _ , Bucky squirms a little. 

"What did Sam tell ya when he gave you my number?" Bucky remembers he meant to ask.

It's Steve's turn to fidget a bit in his seat.

"Said you were shy, that I should call you," he answers despite his clear nervousness, "I couldn't bring myself to call…" Steve gulps, "I'm...I don't exactly do this very often." He says finally and Bucky watches him, the way he's blushing and his fingers are closed tight around the length of his fork, the way he's biting his bottom lip like it's done him wrong.

It's easy to believe Steve, as unbelievable as it is to think this man doesn't go from date to date like a butterfly hops flowers. 

"Me neither," Bucky blurts out after a bout of silence has passed. "I don't, I...I haven't done that since, before the war, dates that is."

He knows he's crimson by now, but the way Steve looks at him, head cocked to the side, makes it better somehow.

"Really?"

"I could say the same," Bucky smiles sheepishly and continues when Steve frowns, "Come on, look at you."

The silence that follows is filled with sparks that are both innuendo and soft praise.  _ That feels great, _ Bucky thinks and surprises himself in thinking he shouldn't have been nervous after all. 

"I didn't always look like this," Steve says and Bucky frowns, sensing that once again, the simple string of words means more than it seems in Steve's mouth.

He still answers, "Me neither."

Bucky can't help the self-deprecating tone of his voice when he says it, no matter the reassurance of his friends and the nagging pipe at the back of his mind that tells him to get over himself already, it's still there.

It's Steve's turn to frown, he blushes even before he says anything and rubs the back of his neck in a way Bucky's starting to really associate with the man.

"I don't know what you were like before, but I like what I'm seeing right now."

It's mumbled and still flirtatious, it's shyly said and yet the way Steve meets Bucky's eyes is nothing but truthful. 

Bucky takes a sip of his rapidly cooling macchiato instead of answering, and if the large mug hides half of his face as he does it? All the better. 

* * *

When Bucky comes home after what he only dares calling a date in a whisper, he finds Nat and Sam slouching on the couch - or as much as Nat ever slouches. It's Movie Night and Bucky is all too glad that they started picking out movies without him, he's happy with whatever they choose, he quite sucks at finding good ones. 

Nat beckons him closer when she sees him leaning in the door and he goes silently, flopping on the couch until he's got his head in her lap and he can draw his legs to his chest. He wonders if he should even pretend he's not too tired to watch anything or if he should just go ahead, turn around, and bury his face in her stomach till he passes out. 

Nat answers that for him, a hand brushing the strands of hair that are falling in his eyes, "Go ahead, big guy, but I'll have questions for you in the morning, don't think we're letting you off the hook that easily."

Sam hums in agreement on the other side of the couch and Bucky only huffs a small burst of laughter, but nods still. He turns around and does just what he thought of, buries his face in the soft fabric of his best friend's jumper and breathes, till sleep takes him. 

The material of Bucky's dreams is always more or less the same, a blend of memories, old and new, mixed together in hues of Afghan desert and green camouflage, of prosthetics' gray and painted silicone beige, of Nat's eyes and Sam's smile, of Peter's curls and Carol's singing voice. Today has the addition of Steve's blush and it would be welcome, if it wasn't tampered by the red of blood and the memory of his voice saying he didn't know what to do with himself.

Bucky's sleep is stuck in a loop and he is foggily aware that he is thrashing in his sleep until he hears the low murmur of Nat singing to the tune of  _ You are my Sunshine _ . He can't tell what's dream and what's reality but he relaxes anyway, a soft and constant brush of fingers in his hair and on the side of his face quieting his mind and allowing his body to rest some more.

He still wakes up in the middle of the night, in the same position he'd been in when he drifted off - only now his head isn't on Nat's lap anymore, but pressed against her thigh. He looks up, moving as softly as he can lest he wakes up the light sleeper she is. Sam's gone to his bed but Nat is right here with him, her features open and relaxed like he rarely sees her.

She's so beautiful and Bucky's heart feels full and as she breathes in sleep. All he can think about is how he'd give the world to keep her safe and happy. Nat is probably the only reason Bucky didn't quit on physical therapy right from the start. He can still remember the righteous anger in her features, her frustration that her own recovery wasn't going faster - a bullet passing through your shoulder leaves damage, whether you're a kickass spy or not. Her quips and mimicking of the first PT they had in common during group classes were the only thing that made Bucky look forward to each session, and after a while, when she'd managed to motivate him without knowing it long enough that he was seeing  _ some _ progress in his own healing, it wasn't such a drag to go to the gym anymore. They bonded over lunges and shitty smoothies and now? Bucky could not see how he'd be able to live without her. 

Remembering all that always made him a bit emotional and looking at her in sleep, he wants nothing more than to touch her face, anchor himself in the sight and feel of her but he doesn't, he keeps still to let her rest and tries to breathe normally.

Bucky knows sleep probably won't come back, but he's happy to stay put for now. He thinks back on the afternoon he's spent with Steve, at the way the man looked at him and the way even the memory of it makes his heart beat faster. 

He thinks about how gorgeous Steve is, and how for the first time in years, Bucky wants to kiss someone, kiss him, put his hands, flesh and not, on the man's cheeks and watch as a blush spreads on Steve's face and probably down his neck as well. 

There was a loneliness in Steve's eyes that Bucky can understand, and wants to alleviate if he'll let him. To think that such a shy man made the first move for him makes Bucky smile. He sure as hell wouldn't have dared - too out of practice, too gauche at these things since he lost his arm. 

Steve hadn't looked at the arm too much either; none of the staring and asking questions and smiling in commiseration that Bucky has grown used to. It felt good. It still does. 

He stays put on the couch even if his position isn't the most comfortable. He waits till the first rays of sunlight start caressing down Natasha's face before he picks up his phone from the coffee table and starts a new message. 

The empty text box mocks him for a few seconds before Bucky says _ fuck it _ . 

_ "Morning Steve, I was wondering, yesterday was… really nice, but we hardly talked about your exhibition. Do you still want me to do shots with you?"  _

Bucky flushes just rereading his message, he sounds like an idiot. He doesn't think smooth is in his cards right now though, so he presses send anyway and hopes Steve won't think the same. 

He hears Sam getting up down the hallway, yawning like it's his job and that alone is enough to wake Nat. He feels her stir behind him and sits up.

"Morning, princess," Bucky drawls a bit, his voice rough with disuse. 

Nat blinks a bit and rubs at her face before she smiles at him.

"Hi, hotshot."

Bucky grins. "I'll go make us all some coffee." 

The pot is slowly filling with the brown elixir that shall revive the three of them when Bucky's phone dings in his pocket. 

He tries not to fish it out too hurriedly but fails. He pushes the key to unlock it and finds Steve's answer waiting for him.

_ "Yesterday was really nice indeed. ;) _

_ My studio is down in Brooklyn, I'd love to get your portrait, if that's cool, maybe a few other pictures, you'll tell me what you're comfortable with. Does Tuesday sound good?" _

Another text quickly follows with the exact address of Steve's studio and Bucky's grin feels stuck in place. 

He's going to see Steve again, in three days. 

He quickly goes back to the living room, coffee and mugs on a tray, before the others start complaining he's taking too long, or worse, start asking questions. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony needs some help, Steve too, really, all a bunch of guys being helpless at this love thing.

Steve was fully ready to spend his days pining after Handsome-Black-Hair and Glass-Cutting-Jaw Bucky when he'd left the café. Their pretend-interview turned date stayed with him all through the evening and even shielded his fragile night of its usual terrors. 

As it is, he receives Bucky's text mere minutes after he blinks his eyes open and shakes himself not to stare at it with a starstruck smile.  _ He thinks our date was nice.  _

Steve gets up with his heart light and his footsteps take on the same uplift. He makes his way to the kitchen for some water. Clear his mind and throat.  _ Answer the text _ . 

Bucky's reply a few minutes later makes for a very hard fall back to Planet Earth when his front door opens in a loud bang. 

It's not even 8am and Tony Stark is closing the door behind him with his key and dragging his feet to the armchair he favors, then slouches in it.

" _ What the hell, Tony? _ " Steve stormed out of the kitchen when he heard the noise and is now stuck a few feet away from his best friend, his hands on his hips and a headache already starting to simmer behind his eyes. 

"I need a place to crash for a few days." That's all Tony says and Steve is about ready to yell at him, what, does he think he can just…

But then Steve sees the dark bags under his friend's eyes, the streaks that marr his cheeks and he stalls instead.

He takes the last steps that separate them until he can put his phone down on the coffee table and sit on it as well, just across the other man.

"Sure. What's up, Tones?" 

"Do we have to talk about it now?" Tony looks up and his eyes are filled with tears - a rare occurrence, Steve swears he hasn't seen the man cry since the late 90s.

"No, of course not," Steve rushes to say reaching out to touch Tony's face as a tear rolls down his cheek. He wipes it off before pulling Tony in an awkward hug. "D'you sleep at all?" 

Tony shakes his head against Steve's shoulder, no surprises there.

"'K, go then, you take my bed and I'll be here when you wake up, sound good?"

Steve forces Tony to let go and meet his gaze then. The sight pulls at his heartstrings like very few things can - it's always so unnatural, seeing Tony like this. 

Eventually, Tony nods and Steve steps away.

"Thank you, Rogers." Tony says, and his voice sounds too raw for Steve to do anything but wave it off gently.

"Make yourself comfortable."

Seeing Tony, or any of his friends really, in such a state is something Steve is, first, not accustomed to, and second, will never get accustomed to. He wasn't kidding, or exaggerating, or anything other than telling the truth when he told Bucky that Tony was his brother in everything but blood, and somehow he sensed, perhaps, that made their bond even stronger, because they chose each other. Just as they chose Clint and Phil and they chose them back. 

Even the joy that fills him when he glances at Bucky's message, as he traces the faint lines of his words on the screen of his phone, is not enough to outweigh how much he worries about Tony. It's not like him to cry, that's one thing. It's even less like him to seek help and comfort from the people who love him when he's not feeling well. The idiot would rather hide in his work and forget to eat; which, as sad as it sounds, is still an improvement from the days where he would forget about his diabetes and eat his worries away in junk food. 

But, improvement or not, Steve can't help but check on his friend every half-hour or so, just pushing the door open enough that he can see Tony's eyes are closed and his chest rises and falls with the tell-tale rhythm that assures Steve the man is actually sleeping.

He needs to take his mind off it until Tony wakes up and, hopefully, explains. There's no way he'll leave the apartment when he's assured Tony he'll be there when he wakes up, so Steve opens his computer and goes back to finishing up the last of the descriptions he wants to match with the art he'll showcase during his exhibition. It works well enough. The sheer amount of things he still has to do to make it happen, his dream ever since he woke up from crashing in the lake and figured he'd have to find something else to do with his life, is almost enough for Steve to be totally immersed in thoughts of canvas, and card printing, and  _ what champagne are we serving again _ ? 

When he next looks up at the clock above the mantel of his decorative hearth, two hours have passed and he hears some movement coming from his room. He doesn't bother putting his things away, but just closes his computer and goes to make some tea. 

Tony's sitting in the corner of the couch with the throwaway blanket Steve keeps on the headboard of his bed wrapped around his knees. To say he looks miserable is an understatement that revives Steve's worry tenfold. He doesn't tell him, that'd be Tony's move if their roles were reversed. Instead, Steve puts the tray with the cups and teapot on the table and sits facing his best friend on the couch, the back cushions pillowing his bad hip. 

"Got any sleep?" 

It takes a minute of Tony avoiding his gaze before the man nods and finally looks up. His eyes seem wet with both fatigue and tears and Steve can't help himself. He inches closer on the couch until he can put Tony's blanket-clad legs over his own and pull the man to his chest, a hand in his hair and Tony's head on his shoulder.

He feels more than he hears Tony succumbing to whatever pain he's holding back and he starts sobbing silently against Steve. 

" _ Fuck _ , Tones, you don't have to tell me but damn, seeing you like this is killing me," Steve whispers, trying to keep any impatience his helplessness makes him feel out of his voice.

Tony snorts a pitiful thing that tells Steve he's trying to pretend he's in any mood to laugh, but fails, and if that's not the biggest clue he's got of how serious this is.  _ Fuck. _

"Love trouble, Steevo." Again, Tony's voice has that derisive quality he applies when he's trying to be sarcastic, but it falls flat, violently so when the next thing Steve knows, Tony's crying louder than before, wetting the fabric at his shoulder with tears Steve wants to never see again. 

He squeezes his arms around Tony's back, hard, and only draws back when Tony's crying tapers down to sniffing. Neither knows how long it takes, but the tea is still hot enough to drink when they get to it, so that's something. Steve copies Tony's position on the couch, he draws his legs up to his chest and cradles his mug of tea there, above his knees. 

"Wanna tell me more?" Steve tries and Tony blinks a few times before he takes a deep breath; that's a yes then.

"I-- I've been seeing this guy?" Tony starts with a small smile that Steve can't help but mimic, one of his eyebrows raising in surprise, "I haven't told you all about it 'cause it's new and," Tony pauses, gulps and shakes his head before he keeps going, "We fooled around back in the day too, then lost sight of each other and I, I just, I want it to work but he's,  _ difficult _ ?" 

Steve's lips quirk in a smile hearing Tony babble a bit, and then again thinking,  _ so can you be _ , but he doesn't say it. He figures his face says enough.

Tony's eyes are tightly shut as he keeps going, tightly enough that Steve knows he's staving off fresh tears and he loses his smile. "Something, huge, and bad, really bad happened to him a few years back and I knew that going in but we… I went to see him yesterday, check on him, have dinner maybe," Tony opens his eyes again, latching onto Steve's gaze for strength, probably, "It didn't go as I hoped, we had an argument… he's so fucking  _ insecure _ , Steve, I swear to God, it's… and his fucking  _ ego _ …"

Steve doesn't snort, he  _ doesn't _ , but Tony smiles either way.

"I know what you're thinking but that's the thing, I just… I know what it's like and I need him to let me help, you know? I'm rambling all over you am I not?  _ Fuck _ …" the last part is said with Tony hiding his face in his hands and Steve can't have that, not now that he thinks he understands where this all came from, not now that Tony's managed to share all this with him.

"Hey," he reaches for Tony's hands, prying them away from his face with gentle pulls, "It's okay, you know it is." Steve tries to put all the reassurance he can muster into his gaze and squeezes Tony's fingers softly.

"Yeah, yeah, I, thank you Steve, it's just that, I really love him? You know? And that doesn't happen every day and he's so fucking stubborn…"

"You'll figure it out, both of you, you'll make it work, I'm sure," Steve finds himself saying and he believes every word. Tony confessing his feelings about another human practically never happens, at least not this clearly, and it tells Steve everything he needs to know about how much work his best friend is ready to put into this relationship he has.

"Can I ask what his name is?" He asks as an afterthought and frowns in confusion when Tony chuckles lowly.

"Stephen."

Steve grins as well but doesn't comment. They've had enough questions about their relationship over the years for it to be a running joke that doesn't need words to be heard. He can tell Tony already feels lighter having been able to say all this, to unload on Steve the way they always do whenever something big happens to either of them. It feels good, knowing he can give him that. 

Steve still blushes red as a tomato when his phone pings and vibrates on the coffee table. It's not even a text, just the notification, probably coming in late at that, that Bucky's read his text, but it's enough for Tony to squint at him curiously.

"Is it that guy? Bucky?" Tony's voice sounds like that of an excited child who's being made privy of a well-kept secret and it brings a laugh out of Steve. 

"Hm, yeah, well just the confirmation that he read my last text really." Steve says and if his words are slurred together it's not because he's trying to disappear into the couch, no sir. 

Except Tony was always exceptionally good at hearing what people didn't want him to hear and Steve imagines, the tale of his lovelife must sound like a welcome distraction to his friend so he gets ready to indulge him.

"How is he? Did you do what I said the other day, saw him instead of talking to us like an idiot?" Tony's eyes are almost back to their natural sparkle, and even if that's a relief for Steve it doesn't change his unease at talking about these things with  _ anyone _ . 

"He's great? Uh, really interesting guy, I--"

"Oh you can do better than that, my friend, tell meeeee," Tony demands with a slight pout.

"You are really such a child," Steve huffs but his eyes betray him when he can't help but glance at his phone, "We had coffee, at a place called the Captain's Café." 

"Oh don't tell me, down in Brooklyn right?" 

"Yeah, exactly. Hm, the place belongs to friends of his, they looked like family really," Steve smiles as he remembers the way Peter had been so excited every time he came back to their table, or the way  _ Carol _ , he'd learned was her name, would  _ discreetly _ peek at them above her desserts' counter at various points, "It was great, we talked a lot," Steve nods to himself and Tony drinks up every word.

People might think this man can't listen to others with how much he talks, but Steve found out almost two decades ago that it's quite the contrary so he's not surprised, just struggling with his words.

"I'm seeing him again in three days," he says finally and thinks  _ fuck it _ , before he gives Tony his phone and lets him read the handful of texts they've exchanged so far. 

Tony whistles under his breath, not mocking, but trying to push Steve a bit and it works.

"I really do like him, you know?" Steve looks at the photograph right next to his clock, Peggy's, before he shakes himself. When he looks into Tony's eyes he knows what he sees, warmth, support, knowledge of what's passing through his mind right then, is exactly what he needed and he feels like it's no wonder he's friends with this man. "Haven't felt like that with anyone, not this soon at least, since I met her in Afghanistan."

Tony's smile splits his face in half and he reaches a trembling hand towards Steve. Steve takes it, cocking his head to the side in a silent question. 

"I'm happy for you, that's all," Tony answers. Then he gets up, intentionally breaking the moment, Steve knows, and stretches before taking on a fake snob tone, "Anything to eat in this shack?" 

"That can be arranged, yeah." Steve follows him to the kitchen before he makes a huge mess of it, cooking disaster that he is.

They end up choosing homemade pizzas, for which Tony's only contribution apart from sarcastic quips here and there is the chopped Italian sausage and the opening of the can of tomato sauce. Real good kitchen clerk. 

Having Tony around the next few days feels like it did back in college and then again when Steve came home from the front, battered and tired and grieving; Tony's a sun wherever he goes, no matter what goes on in his own life and the concerns Steve can see passing over his face every now and then, Tony brings him more joy than most people have been able to in all of Steve's life. No wonder people generally think they're a couple. But yeah, thanks but no thanks to living with this tornado his whole life. 

Steve feels calm after that first morning they spent talking. They enjoy movie nights and movie days, try to cook as much of their food as possible instead of ordering in.Tony, the terrible influence, tries to talk him into texting Bucky every hour of every day. However, he's much quieter about the one time in those 72 hours they spend together when Stephen finally answers his text by calling him and he retreats to Steve's room to talk. 

The shit-eating grin on Tony's face when he emerges from the bedroom and the way his eyes seem like bubbles of joy make Steve's heart swell in happiness for his best friend, at the same time as it gives him hope for his own  _ near _ future. 


	6. Chapter 6

The thrill of having something to look forward to is still a bit foreign to Steve. He's had over five years to get used to living a civilian life again, a life in which danger isn't looking to shoot him in the head at every corner or make any vehicle he might pilot plummet down to the unforgiving ground; five years, to try and grieve properly, yet, he can't figure out how he feels right then.

Five years with no one but himself and his friends to people his life - Steve thinks he's ready, and the absence of nightmare the night that precedes his and Bucky's meeting seems to confirm that. It feels good, waking up to sheets that aren't soaked in the cold sweat of a night spent battling demons and ghosts; getting up without the chills of remembrance, of the ice that once tried to seep into his lungs and very nearly managed; of going about his morning routine with only the pain in his hip and the strain in his breath, both constants of this new life Steve thinks he might finally be ready to live to its fullest. 

Until he checks his phone, that is.

Then it all comes down to trying to believe what's written black on white on his screen rather than listening to the voices in his head that only ever quieted down when Peggy told him she loved him, and how long has it been since it last happened. 

_ "Hey Steve, can't make it today, I got a job interview and you know, I'm really sorry, but I can't pass up on that. I really hope we can reschedule?" _

Steve closes his eyes against the sudden mist that threatens to spill and whose nonsense he berates himself for. He takes a deep breath, rereads the text and decides that no, he won't try to read between the lines, there is nothing but the words and their very simple meanings, the very simple truth that Bucky's done nothing to deserve his suspicion. 

He looks at his Google Calendar, still hearing Tony's offended huff that he doesn't use the SI app, and figures he honestly has enough blank spots on there to see Bucky anytime the man can. Not to mention he really,  _ really _ wants to see him again. And he's trying not to think of himself as a pathetic single man who's as out of his game as he could get, but it's hard for a moment. 

Steve would have sworn he wouldn't regret Tony going home after spending almost four days with him 24/7. No matter how much he loves him, and will always be there for him, they are very different in the way they go through their daily lives. So he was happy to be on his own again when Tony left this morning, but now, he thinks having his best friend around as he tries to act like a normal human trying to date the-most-handsome-man-he's-ever-met might have been helpful. Or relaxing. Or anything that would have prevented Steve's heartbeat from going haywire like it's doing now. 

Thinking back on it later, much later, Steve will realize there's no such thing as having a steady heartbeat for him when Bucky Barnes is involved. 

For now though, he picks up his phone and starts typing his answer, hoping their next scheduled not-date will be the one this time.

* * *

Steve needs to learn to be suspicious of days that start too well. Or so he thinks. 

Not once today has he stopped in his well-worn, well-oiled tracks to wonder when the next roadblock would come, and where from. Not once. Until he didn't have to wonder, until the answer was right there. 

He's had no trouble dragging himself to the bathroom this morning, no trouble eating spoonfuls after spoonfuls of oatmeal and no problem getting to the bank for his first appointment, as well as the second. Everything was going perfectly, until he came out of that second and last appointment with his counselor, his loan still firmly granted and a smile that was more a grin carved in his cheeks as he made his way to his studio. He could have been whistling as he went that the downfall wouldn't have been harder, or more painful.

Steve sat backwards in his little office chair, turning and rolling from one wall to another, not even bothering with the sheer noise he was making. He counted the tiles of the ceramic piece he and Clint had affixed to the wall the summer he'd first rented the place. He bit his bottom lip and decided that crying was out of the question, and calling Tony so he could cry  _ in Tony's ear _ wasn't any better. 

He should be pissed off that Bucky is once again calling things off and not even bothering to warn him this time but instead of all that, instead of any anger or rightful frustration, Steve feels like a failure. Like there must be a reason he's not been able to sustain a relationship with anyone since he woke up from the lake to the news of Peggy's death. Like maybe, grieving is all that's--

That's his phone, ringing. Where did he put it, fuck. Steve pats his pockets, jeans and jackets and comes up empty only to remember he actually had a duffel bag with him today. He gets up - trying and failing not to stumble on his chair and the million papers that litter the floor - and finally finds his phone.

_ Tony _ .

He's about to swipe right to answer his best friend's call, as much as he thinks he's not fit for anything the man might have in mind right now but he's too late. The call disconnects and Steve sighs. Fuck. 

Except there's no time to go back to his trip down self-pity lane- his phone starts ringing again.

Phil. What the…

"Phil?" The man hardly ever calls, texts being his favored method of contact always. 

"I-- Hi Stevo," he also hasn't called him that in what...ten years? Steve hears the man take a deep breath at the other end of the call and time stands still as Steve understands  _ immediately _ that nothing good comes from this phone call.. 

"Where do you need me?" Steve's voice cuts through the static with a strength he doesn't think he has but Phil exhales loudly, like it's a relief, like Steve did good. 

"Metro Gen, Tony's on his way too."

"I'll grab a cab, I can be there in ten." And that's how they leave it. Steve grabs his duffel back from the side of his desk, his keys from the bowl by the door and he's gone. 

It's only when he's sitting in the cab that Steve thinks of shooting Tony a text. The reply comes that he doesn't know anything else than the little Steve already got from his call with Phil; something happened to Clint. 

Dread fills him till his fingers shake and his hip kills him with how much it throbs, his lungs aren't faring much better but Steve is still out of the car and onto the parking lot of Metro Gen by the time Tony climbs out of his own car. Seeing him already soothes Steve to an extent he can't possibly define. They're both grinding their teeth the entire ride of the elevator and up to the 3rd floor, per the directions given by a nurse in the lobby. 

It's not a long ride and yet Steve feels like this is the hundredth time he's looked from his feet to Tony's eyes, looking to be grounded, looking for a reassurance his best friend is currently unable to provide because he needs it himself. Tony's eyes are wide the way he keeps them when he's staving off tears and Steve can't help but reach out, take his hand in his and squeeze it like the connection of their hands is the only thing connecting them to the earth. 

He feels like he's standing in a time that has stopped, in a place that has gone out of the way of life as usual, and yet, the elevator dings and the doors open, and noise comes rushing back into the cubicle, rushing  _ them _ back into the outside world. 

They keep their hands linked together as Steve manages to make their way between an armada of nurses and as many relatives of people they'll never see but are still blocking their way to their friends. He pulls Tony to him as gently as he can.

"I see him," he says after a bit and the second their passage clears and Tony sees Phil too, his steps take on a harsher rhythm, until he eventually lets go of Steve's hand to wrap his arms around the other man. 

Phil's eyes are bloodshot as he looks up from Tony's shoulder and into Steve's own gaze. His nose is runny and his hair is undone in more ways than Steve can count. And the dread in Steve's bone seeps farther inside, cutting deeper, until Phil finally tells them. 

"He's unconscious. The mission--" he hiccups, squeezes Tony's arms around his shoulders until he lets go but keeps a hold of Tony's hand instead, "went to shit and he, he didn't…" Phil's sobs cloud whatever it was he wanted to add and it's Steve's turn to bring the other two into a hug that's as much about bringing them comfort as it is to tether himself.

That's when he sees her, a petite woman with red hair and big green eyes that look like they've shed a few tears of their own. Steve takes a step back with a pat on Phil's shoulder, clearing his throat and motioning to her. 

"Found something to eat?" Phil asks with a chuckle that's everything but amused and the flinch in the woman's features tells Steve she doesn't feel like laughing either. 

"I got shitty coffee if you want some," she says and the look they share, Steve doesn't feel like that's something he should witness. 

Both he and Tony know there's a whole part of Phil and Clint's life that they will never access, a whole number of people they will never meet even if they mean just as much to their friends as they, themselves, do, and it seems this woman may be one of these people. Steve is curious but he doesn't want to impose. He thinks maybe he and Tony should go sit somewhere while they wait for news but just looking at his friend, Steve knows that's a lost cause.

Tony's all but jumping with nerves, the way he does when all he needs is to be taken in someone's arms and at this point, Steve knows the only arms that will help soothe him are Phil's. Phil is quick to realize it when he turns back from the muted conversation he was having and waves Steve closer just as he pulls Tony to him. 

"So, this is Natasha," Phil says, looking at all three of them in turn. "Nat, this is Tony, and Steve." 

Natasha nods and gives them each a small smile. It's not forced exactly but very characteristic of meetings that occur in circumstances like these Steve guesses. Not like you get to meet and greet and chat and laugh and-- when your best friend, or husband is in a fucking coma. 

Tony burrows his head in Phil's shoulder and Steve hears him ask when they'll be able to see Clint, but Steve doesn't hear the answer. A minute change in position, balancing his weight from one foot to the other and turning his neck just so and two other people come into his line of vision that he hadn't noticed before. 

Steve's jaw doesn't drop; it  _ unhinges _ . 

He looks from one man to the other, back to Natasha, and to Phil, who doesn't look up from where he's gazing into Tony's eyes as they share their worries. Natasha does raise an eyebrow at him and Steve closes his mouth in slow motion. The look on her face tells him she had already known who he was, and isn't that interesting, and for the next long minutes Steve is ashamed to say his concern over Clint's state slides to the background of his mind.

Because Bucky, and his friend Sam, are right there, sitting on the characteristic blue plastic chairs of the hospital, the ones that screech if you move too much and shift under you like they're too fragile to take your weight when you change positions. Bucky's head is resting on Sam's shoulder and both men have their eyes closed but they're not sleeping. Sam's cheeks are wet like he's been crying and Bucky brow is stuck in a frown as he shuffles closer to Sam's neck and Sam winds an arm around his waist, squeezing wordlessly.

Jealousy isn't in Steve's nature, or so he thought, but it seems he was wrong or the combination of these particular circumstances are just that character-altering. Who knows. Who fucking cares. Not Steve, not right now. His jaw is squared as he stares at the pair of them and he doesn't know how long he does it - again, shame is only something he'll feel later, but he hears Natasha clear her throat behind him and he tries to snap out of it, without success. 

Until Bucky's eyes snap open like he's heard it too, or he's felt Steve's glare, or his position was no longer comfortable - anyhow, he straightens in his seat, and the chair gives the expected high-pitched shrill. His eyes widen just slightly, like someone trained to hide his emotions but Steve sees it all the same. There's a bout of stillness where they both stare at each other and Steve only sees Sam open his eyes and smirk wetly through his peripheral vision, much too involved in the wordless conversation he's in the middle of having. 

Steve keeps on glaring, his brain stuck on mindless reproaches and stupid claims. Bucky's frown returns. He crosses his arms and his gaze fleets to Steve's right, to Natasha, probably, to Phil still hugging Tony, briefly. He looks like he's going to get up and come see him but Steve doesn't know what to do with that, because of course, for all he stares and stews in his anger, he has no idea why he feels like this, no idea why he takes this so strongly. 

Being furious seems easier than pondering on his reactions right then. Introspection time shall come later anyway because the next thing he knows, a nurse is coming down the hallway on heels that click on the linoleum in a way that makes everyone turn their heads to her. She gives them a small smile - the caretaker smile that means she doesn't have news, no good nor bad ones, just, no changes to report. 

While Tony stays clutching the lapels of Phil's shirt, Steve and Natasha both take a step back to let the nurse say her piece. She's a petite woman with brown hair and a serious air about her. She speaks frankly, with a non-nonsense air, but the good news her words carry belay the stone-set of her face. 

"Mr. Barton is showing good signs of a steady recovery. While it is true the trauma caused him to slip into an unconscious state, he seems to be waking up now, slowly but we have no doubt as to his coming back to consciousness within the hour." Her voice is steady even as her lips stretch in as much of a smile as she can allow it as everyone sits or stands straighter around her, hanging on to her words like gospel. "Did anyone want to see him, two people at a time is all I can permit." 

Phil nods at her, and so does Tony, repeatedly so. Phil's hand is trembling as he finds Tony's and looks around at them, like he's ready to apologize and it's Natasha who says the obvious first - maybe Steve likes her, difficult to tell just now.

"You go ahead, we'll be right there." She smiles at Phil reassuringly and even nods at Tony's wide eyes, before she goes back to the other man, "Give him a kiss for me?" 

Phil nods. The nurse shows them to the end of the corridor where she came from and all four remaining people watch them walk, watch the doors swing open and closed again once they're through. Silence reigns for a good while before Steve turns back and finds Bucky taking a few steps towards him. 

“You know, Steve,” Bucky said with a slight catch in his voice, “I was really looking forward to getting to know you because you seemed like kind of a chill guy, but now that you’ve spent the last ten minutes shooting daggers at me just because - I’m guessing - I didn’t tell you something you didn’t need to know or that I even knew you needed to know, I’m not into it. See ya around.” 

Steve stood, dumbfounded and wondering what his face had been doing to cause this reaction. Finding his voice, he croaked out, “what was I doing with my face?”

For the rest of time, Steve would be endless grateful that Bucky turned around.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where it all comes to a rather pretty end. Because sometimes, all you really needed to do was talk, and maybe Steve should remember that once in a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter and tomorrow is the epilogue. This chapter has the sweet sweet surprise of one more of Deisderium's amazing art works 😍😍

"I--"

"You were  _ glaring  _ at me, dude, and at Sam, which, granted he's a dick but that's… you know what, I don't have time for this bullshit, Clint almost just  _ died _ and I don’t owe you an explanation of why that makes me fucking… Why that would destroy me. So, like I said, you can take me off your project" 

Steve realizes he has exactly three seconds to change Bucky’s mind. 

"You’re right. You’re totally right and my resting bitch face shouldn’t cancel what we might have here before it starts and please, just hear me out. Don't go," Steve says and it sounds just that side of imploring. 

Bucky shakes his head and looks at Steve out of the corner of his eye, his jaw set and his voice hard as he grits his teeth and mutters,. "Listening."

Steve isn't really inclined on being kind to himself right this moment, and Bucky doesn't seem in the mood either. "Fuck, I'm, I know. I'm sorry," Steve gestures to an empty exam bay and Bucky follows him in.. "I'm an ass? Okay, I know that, it's just…"

"Still listening." Bucky responds as Steve stutters and maybe there's something in his voice, or in the way he takes a step forward like maybe, just maybe, he wants to resolve this, like Steve fucked up but didn't fuck up  _ everything _ ?

Steve latches onto those blue eyes he'd been so fascinated by back at the Captain's Café, back when Bucky's lips were also smiling at him in that guarded way of his, and he takes a deep breath before he keeps going. He figures he can only do better right now, as pathetic as it sounds. 

"I got jealous? Of your friend? Because...I realize it sounds awful and that's a huge red flag when you know someone as little as you know me but I'm not usually like this, I promise I'm not, but, our last two meetings didn't happen and I'm the most insecure little shit in these things and Peggy would slap the back of my head for this but I couldn't help it. I felt like a fool and now I feel like an asshole. I really am sorry."

The air feels thick and heavy, sitting at the back of Steve's neck in a way that makes his skin itch and he wants to reach out and rub it off but he doesn't, doesn't dare move under Bucky's piercing gaze, doesn't dare upset the fragile balance of indecision he can see on the other man's face lest he tips it off in the wrong direction. Bucky's arms are still crossed tightly over his chest, his flesh arm holding his prosthetic one at the elbow. He sighs after a bit but still doesn't say anything. Until he leans back on the door in a much more relaxed position, his shoulders sagging under it while Steve's square up again in reaction, readying himself for an answer, if there's one coming. 

Until the last second it looks like Bucky will keep silent, will keep studying Steve's face like it holds answers he wasn't able to articulate, and it probably does, he never was that good with words after all. But eventually, Bucky's voice resounds again in the small, dimly-lit room, "Who's Peggy?" 

The question is so unexpected that Steve huffs a surprised laugh, which he quickly staves off when he sees the seriousness of Bucky's face, and once he considers what he'll answer. She's not a secret, never was, flamboyant woman, but Steve still needs to push himself to say it.

"My wife," Bucky's eyes round like saucers but Steve stops him with a wary hand, "my dead wife." Steve swallows around the lump in his throat. "She was in Afghanistan, too, enrolled just two years before me. Died in combat. War hero, all that. I haven't been with anyone since, she was…  _ everything _ . It was five years ago, almost at the same time as my crash, and I'm still shaky on my legs without her." 

Steve shuts his mouth then, blinking a few times like he's got dust in his eyes even though he really doesn't and it doesn't mean anything but the small step Bucky takes in his direction, the way he lets his arms fall at his sides again, it makes Steve's heart feel a bit lighter. 

"I know it's no excuse and you don't deserve the bullshit I pulled in any way, I'm sure your friend, er, Sam, doesn't either, he was really nice back at the gym… I'm sorry, okay?" Steve huffs defeatedly. 

Somewhere in his monologue, he's looked down and now he's staring at his hands, at his ringless finger, like they're the most interesting thing in the room. 

"You're forgiven." Bucky clicks his tongue. Steve's eyes snap up. "It isn't, an excuse I mean, but you're fine, I get it? Somehow? We're all messed-up in more ways than most in here." 

"Yeah?" Steve's not sure he believes it, for all the times he's told Tony to use his words, and all the other instances were Phil gave  _ him _ a talking to about his inability to talk to people, he's still surprised that it actually works to make him be understood, and it seems Bucky means it, too. 

The man walks up to him now, it's not a long distance really but every step echoes down Steve's rib cage a bit wildy. He tilts his head up when Bucky's so close that it becomes necessary and Steve reaches up. His hand shakes a little when he brushes a finger on Bucky's cheek, then tucks a strand of his long hair behind his ear. 

"I'm way too involved in this already," Bucky admits in a low voice. "You're all I've thought about for almost two weeks it's disgusting really."

Steve would chuckle and give a witty comeback but he finds that he can't, that humor is fine for a while, until he really wants something else. Something softer, something that means what he can't say. 

"Can I kiss you?" He asks. 

"Thought you'd never ask." Bucky whispers back. 

Steve is gone on romantic clichés, always has been, from flowers to rom-com movies and possibly passing by serenades, he loves them all and right then, when Bucky leans down and he sits up, when their lips meet in a touch that's both velvet hot and rough, bitten skin, when Bucky's hand cups the back of his head and he hangs onto the man's hoodie to stay on the edge of the bed as much as to pull him closer, it's like fireworks are going off behind his closed eyelids. There's not much that equals a first kiss and Bucky seems to have an effect on Steve the likes of which he's never known. The likes of which he'd bathe in for days, if Bucky let him - if he can manage to not step on his tongue as he rushes into life. 

Soulmates don't exist, Steve doesn't believe they do. It doesn't change the fact that his heart feels fuller, livelier than it has in so long, it makes him pant against Bucky's lips, makes him push for more, shift the depth of the kiss until their tongues meet and Bucky's exhale sounds almost like a moan.

They part with glossy eyes and swollen lips, Bucky's hoodie rucked-up and Steve's sure his hair is a mess and none of it matters except for all that it makes him flush with joy. Thank God the nurse had said Clint was going to be okay before they came in here or this would be downright shameful. As it is, Steve can only reach for Bucky's hand, he doesn't look at which and ends up squeezing his prosthetic one. 

"Rookie mistake," he says as he blushes but doesn't let go, and he can't either, because Bucky's clasped his other hand on top of Steve's, trapping it in place as he stares at it and blinks slowly.

"No, it's actually okay, I don't… I like it? I think?" 

Steve smiles then, happy he's done something good by accident for once and Bucky smiles too.

"This is a much better look on you by the way," Bucky says. 

"Hm?" 

"Sloppy kiss lips, I like it," 

"Oh, good then? I guess?" Steve says tentatively, his free hand finally inching up to rub at his neck.

"Yeah… I like you, too," Bucky keeps going and this time Steve might be blushing red-hot but he answers automatically.

"Me too, fuck… me too." 

There's a minute of silence and it's interrupted by a knock on the door, quickly followed by Natasha's muffled voice.

"You dorks still alive?" 

"Go away, Boo!" Bucky fires out and Steve gives a short laugh. He really thinks he might like her. 

"So we're okay then?" Steve still asks, biting his lip as he does so. 

"More than - should we go see that dumbass Barton now?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Their hands are linked when they leave the room, and isn't that an upturn of events Steve never saw coming. Sam and Natasha must have though, if the passing of crumpled bills from a disgruntled Sam to a grinning Natasha is a any clue.

She winks at him then, and Bucky's smiling and Sam snorts a bit, just as the nurse comes out at the end of the hallway, Phil right behind her. 

The nurse gives a sigh that sounds both exasperated and fond, Phil pinching the bridge of his nose with eyes that show how relieved he is and they all grin when she finally tells them, "Mr. Stark is currently sleeping next to my patient, so if two more of you want to get in, I think we can allow it."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after our last chapter, Steve's exhibit finally opens.

** _\- EPILOGUE - _ **

The venue Tony found is the most intimate, high-end, hole in the wall kind of place Steve could ever have imagined. It’s perfect. Fits his tortured artist soul, Tony had said when he’d presented it to Steve six months prior, and Steve has to agree. He feels right at home here, between the brick walls and glass windows that show the inside courtyard rather than the street, the sparsely placed neon lights on the walls that mix so well with the overhead white and blue lights. 

There’s a lot more people already here than Steve had anticipated, too. The main room’s 800 square feet are full to the brim with people whose faces are either very familiar or completely unknown to him. It’s a strange feeling - knowing that they’ve all come to see his pictures, to look and potentially buy the photos he’s been working on for so long, even if it feels like he picked his camera back up yesterday. 

Steve can’t stop grinning. Can’t stop biting the insides of his cheeks either. A nervous and excited mess, a combination that would give him a headache if Tony’s new PR person - and Nat’s new girlfriend to the delight of  _ everyone _ \- hadn’t prepped him till he felt both overwhelmed and more ready than he would ever be. 

He knows what to tell passers-by, how to sweet talk potential buyers, how much to give reporters and art critics and where to draw the line - family, friends,  _ Bucky _ . Pepper is a godsend. 

“Hey big guy,”

Steve turns around to see Okoye walk to him, one arm linked to her husband’s and the other to Bucky’s. She’s stunning. She’s gone all-in tonight, wearing a green dress that flows down in drapes of, is it  _ silk _ ? and black flats, gold makeup around her eyes and her jewelry that reflects the light and clinks merrily with each of her movements. Steve is once again floored by this new family life has gifted him in the merging of both his and Bucky’s groups of close-knit friends. It was unexpected, it  _ is  _ delightful; and to see the Wilsons dressed to the nine and grinning at his boyfriend of two months just  _ does  _ something to him.

“Don’t go all teary-eyed now, man, I can’t handle that sh-- ouch,  _ rude _ ,” Sam pouts at his wife and both Bucky and Steve laugh. 

It’s only then that Steve really looks at him, too, and God, does he have to torture him by looking so good in a tux?  _ Fuck.  _

“We’ll let you two to enjoy your success, catch up later,” Okoye brushes her hand on Steve’s shoulder and he turns before she can leave to kiss her cheek.

“Thank you for being here, it means a lot, both of you.”

“We’re happy to be here,” Sam shrugs and off they go. 

With Bucky’s chin on his shoulder, Steve leans back against the man and tilts his head just enough to whisper in his ear.

“You look insanely good. Not fair.”

“Oh because you think that gray shirt is fair, Rogers? Or those slacks for that matter?” 

“Stephen helped me get dressed.” Steve offers as an explanation and Bucky’s answer first comes in the form of a chuckle.

“Of course he did, fancy ass Strange,” he says fondly.

“One more tour?” Steve whispers still.

“Yeah, please, show me around, Mr. Photographer.”

The way Bucky kisses his neck then, so soft and  _ unhidden _ , makes Steve's heart jump in his chest. His hands haven't stopped shaking since he cut the rope at the doors earlier, but the one he puts in Bucky's is immediately steadier. Steve looks from their joined hands to Bucky's face and he's sure he blushes, but it's just because it's hot in here, no reason other than the warmth of the people gathered around them and that of the old-school cast iron heaters in the corners. Or maybe he's in love, with this man who's looking at him like he knows everything that's going through his mind right now, who always looks at him like whatever comes their way, they'll find a safe path together. 

Steve shoves the feeling away when Bucky raises an eyebrow at him and he realizes he's been standing there for a bit too long to look casual to anyone who'd care to look. _ Right. Touring the exhibit. Looking at the pictures.  _

There's so many Steve could have put up, but he'd had to choose eventually, thirty-two photographs, to print and frame and describe. Thirty-two faces, and limbs, and stories. Thirty-two moments of Steve's life that still feel like gates these people have all open for him, if not that of their souls then that of their memories, and plans - for each photograph Steve still remembers the moment he clicked the button to take a shot, and then another, and again. 

He remembers the nerves that made some of these men and women's knees jump, the scars they'd so willingly unveiled, the smiles, some strained and some bright - so bright - he remembers what it felt like to be there, and receive the sum of these brave souls' experience of the army, and the life that comes after. The sense of kinship he'd felt is present in all of the pictures, in the light in Colonel Rhodes' eyes, in the smirk of Doctor Palmer’s lips, in the wheels of Officer Quill's chair, in the gentleness of Corporals' Lang and Van Dyne's gazes… 

Steve's never felt this accomplished in his life. 

They walk, hand in hand, following the camo trail on the floor, from picture to picture, they get in the smaller rooms to look at the bigger portraits and Bucky's already heard the stories of every last one of these people but he asks to hear them again, and here they go. Until they reach the room where Steve's put the very last pictures he took for the event. 

The room where a newly retired Clint poses with a cheeky smile that lights up his surrounding, the room where Natasha almost turns her back to the objective until she turns her head to look out of the corner of her eyes at the last minute. A room where both Okoye and Sam wear their uniforms with pride and a sense of authority that commands the atmosphere into saluting.

A room where Bucky smiles, shyly, as he sits on his military kit, prosthetic off and eyes almost hidden by the length of his hair.

Steve's breath is erratic in this room. 

Just as he looks at Bucky's face on the glossy paper, he remembers Peggy's stare and her own bright smile and it feels like a blessing he wasn't expecting. The guilt he's been pushing away ever since he and Bucky started dating feels lighter, like it wants out of his heart and mind and Steve is so ready for that to happen. So ready. 

"You okay, Steve?" Bucky's voice travels through the fog in Steve's ears and he nods as if on reflex, but he is, so okay. 

"Kiss me?" He says in lieu of an answer. 

Bucky huffs a laugh but steps forward anyway, pulls Steve closer with a hand on his waist and another at the back of his head. 

_ This guy can kiss _ , Steve pants against Bucky's lips, his eyes sure to be halfway through glazed as he wills his body not to instantly react to the contact of Bucky's tongue against his own.

"Oh wow! I wondered where you ran off to," Tony's voice cuts them off and apart. 

Steve does not blush again. Nope. 

"Can't you keep it in your pants five minutes, love birds?" 

"Oh you're the one to talk, Stark. You're only busting our balls because Stephen's not here yet." Bucky very maturely blows a raspberry in Tony's direction while the man scoffs.

"Not true, you have a buyer, Mister Fancy Photographer. Pep's waiting for you." 

Steve wants to say something clever because the way Tony's standing with his hands on his hips is simply not acceptable, but he finds that he can't; this feels too good, the banter and the new love and his brother in all but blood here to witness it all and be a smartass about it. Also, someone actually wants to buy one of his works. That... That's mind-boggling enough to shut him up for a bit.

"I'll go - wait for me?" He says in as clear a voice as he can. 

"Not going anywhere, Sunshine," Bucky winks. 

The heaters really are working overtime today. Steve steps back out into the main room under Tony's snicker and even  _ that  _ feels amazing. 

What happens next takes him by surprise, and Steve isn't always the biggest fan of those but when Stephen said he'd be calling a few old contacts he had apparently carefully neglected to mention someone. Steve gets to Pepper, trying to remember everything she's told him and very nearly gasps when she turns out to be talking with-

"Nick Fury, NYC Capture Inc.," the man extends a hand between them. Steve takes it hoping his palm doesn't feel as clamy as he thinks it does. 

"Yes, I know who you are, it's nice to meet you, sir." 

Pepper's eyes are sparkling and of course they are. They're only both standing next to the most famous agent in the business, nothing much. HOT DAMN. 

Steve's smile is so wide his cheeks ache by the time the man's made his proposal - to represent Steve in all his future endeavors as an artist and find him a bigger, even more central venue for his next exhibition, to be opened in a year. He refrains from hollering, or crying, or… but then Bucky and Tony come out of what Steve now thinks of as the family room, shouldering each other playfully, and Natasha steps out of wherever she'd been, holding a champagne flute that matches the color of her dress, and Sam waves at him from where both he and Okoye are talking to whom Steve recognizes as New Yorker featured artists, Clint and Phil are both still looking at all the pictures - Steve's heart feels so full it demands a reprieve. 

Which Pepper delivers, in the form of a chair, and her girlfriend completes, with another glass of champagne which she puts literally puts in his hand. 

He's got everything he's ever wanted, everything he's been fighting for both in and out of his own jumbled mind. He finds Bucky's eyes above the crowd, and he finds that once again, he's swept off his feet by the clarity of them, and the strength of the feelings he sees there. 

And Steve is ready for this life, come hell or high water, nasty nightmares and hectic hip, he's got the village that will make anything possible. 

A loud click and a bright flash later, Steve's misty eyes and grin-split cheeks become the last picture of this adventure. A wild road, and a promising horizon, of stories told and life-changing enterprise, of Bucky's smile and Sam's laugh, of Pepper and Natasha's new apartment three blocks away from his and Bucky's, of Tony and Stephen's engagement and Okoye's mother-henning, of the Coulson's adoption of yet another dog, of everything that remains to be done - a whole of a lot more. 

And they're all readier, steadier, going further, because they have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya friends, this was our last chapter. It was a dlight working with both my artist Deisdeirum who did a fantastic job, and my tireless beta and friend who till a few hours ago was still cheering me on with this. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the fic and will consider telling me how you feel about this Floof epilogue of mine. 
> 
> If you've liked my writing, I have other stories you can check out, and lots more to come. I'm also on Twitter and Tumblr under the same handle. 
> 
> Thank you for reading till the end!


End file.
